


White Winged Doves

by wickedg



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 4+1, 5+1, AU but..., Cunnilingus, F/M, Like you don't need to have read that one, Sexual Content, Well rather, because yeah, but it couldn't hurt, in my fem!Ned verse btw, so like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/pseuds/wickedg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lips talk, says something sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Winged Doves

**Author's Note:**

> Fem!Ned verse: Four times Jon and Wynafryd were caught in compromising situations, and the one time they actually *did* something.

Ghost had never been much of a rambunctious animal, not as active or loud as Nymeria had been, nor as childishly wild as the three direwolves who trailed their mother around, waiting for the next Stark to be born.  
  
So it was unfortunate, a surprise, even, when Wynafryd had found herself turning to see the silent direwolf bounding up to her, master no where in sight, jumping up, and pining her to the ground with an _oof!_ and a sore bottom.  
  
“Ghost, what are you-?” she asked, looking up to the direwolf perched atop of her chest, much larger than it was the last time she saw him.  
  
Gods, but they grow quickly.  
  
He was faintly panting above her now, and with wide eyes, watched him as he wiped his rough pink tongue wipe its way up the side of her cheek. She squealed, trying to bat him away, wiggling her way into the soft dirt and hay of the stable floor, as if she could somehow dig herself out from under the direwolf’s grasp.  
  
“Ghost, to me!” she hears Jon say, and oh, how she has never been quite so happy to see the man she hopes to spend her days with (if he would ever ask, that is), until she realised what she must look like. She could feel the cool air of the North seeping through her stockings, Ghost’s tackle throwing her skirts up, splaying her legs a little, whilst her hair, well-without even raising a hand to tend to it, she could feel it highly resembling young Arya Stark’s hair after a day of rough-housing with Ser Rodrik.  
  
“My lord,” she gasped, “I-I-” and she can’t quite follow on, can’t quite find the words once she starts, once she looks to the young lord, memories of his hesitant, inexperienced kisses making her flush bright red as he began to step closer, kneeling down next to her and extending his hand towards her, gently stroking her hair.  
  
“Did he hurt you, may lady?” He murmured, earnest concern in his voice. She relished in his willing touch, so often given only after a gentle coaxing from her.  
  
“I-I...” But Wynafryd was unable to say what exactly had happened when Theon was standing at the entrance of the stables, a forced cough matching his shit-eating grin as he took in their appearance: Wynafryd, on the floor, leaning up into Jon’s touch, face flushed, skirts harried, hair mussed and legs splayed, while Jon leaned down next to her, almost on top of her.  
  
“Theon,” Jon says, looking to his friend as if this were an every day occurrence, “I was just helping Lady Wynafryd up from where she fell.” He explained, voice entirely innocent, and Wynafryd thinks it must be only Theon who sees what she must think this looks like, whilst Jon, sweet Jon with his lovely eyes and gentle lips, remains honest as if nothing else but the truth could have actually happened.  
  
“Yes, Jon.” Theon responds, raising his brows in return, a tone of incredulity in his voice. “Your lord father is asking after you in his solar.”  
  
Jon nods. “Of course. I shall go to him after I see Lady Wynafryd to her rooms. It has been a harrowing day for her, I believe.” He says, giving her a small smile, as if Ghost’s actions were their little secret, their little joke between them.  
  
Theon just smiles tightly at them as Jon escorts her past him, eyes dancing and oh, how she wants to just slap that look off his face.  


* * *

  
“Wynafryd!”  
  
He is teaching her a Northern dance, and though she knows them all quite well, she lets him lead her into the Great Hall and hold her in his arms.  
  
Yes, she knows the dances quite well, but she also knows herself to be quite terrible at them. She is passable, but she certainly did not expect to be quite so schooled in her technique from Jon.  
  
She is sweltering by the time her hand maid finds them, and in her frustration, had tied her heavy woolen skirts up in attempt to free her legs a little. Jon had not seemed to mind in the least, and though they have kissed in embrace more than once, she is pleased and proud to see him react.  
  
They spring apart when her name is called, and Wynafryd wants to smack Ida, to smack herself for becoming subject to yet another tale in Winterfell.  


* * *

  
She hadn’t meant to be following him-no, truly. In fact, Wynafryd had indeed been out walking through the godswood. It was such a strange, foreign deity to her Seven, but she had found herself utterly enchanted by the misty woods surrounding the heart tree.  
  
Robb’s direwolf was trailing her skirts that day, the babe’s wet nurse finally tiring of the creature, demanding he be sent away from her. And so Wynafryd had clicked her tongue at the pup (not truly a pup anymore), and he had followed.  
  
They continued their walk towards the springs-she was a woman of the North, yes, but it seemed White Harbour was a different kind of cold than Winterfell. It would be easy to get used to, but for now, sitting by the springs in the godswood seemed like a wise idea to warm some feelings back into her bones but a little.  
  
But it is her quiet approach that gives her notice of the soft splash coming from what she had thought to be quite abandoned.  
  
She really should turn back, and Robb’s pup looks up at her with inquiring eyes, ready to follow her wherever she chose, but...  
  
And so Lady Wynafryd Manderly finds herself crouching behind the fallen trunk of tree, too large to move yet, and not yet hacked at with an axe. Quietly, quietly, she peeks her head above the rough, brittle bark, and with a mix of giddy glee and outright horror, finds herself looking at Jon bleeding Stark and Theon bloody Greyjoy relaxing in the waters, their clothes in neat, and messy piles just beyond her.  
  
And well. It’s not that she’s stuck watching the two of them floating around, absolutely no clothing on, but she kind of is, despite it.  
  
That, however, should have been her first warning.  
  
Young Robb’s direwolf bounding out over the trunk and over to his brother, letting out a small bark in the process, turned out to be her second and final warning, much to her distress, for now, she truly is stuck.  
  
“Is that Robb’s pup?”  
  
“It is...how did he get away from Wynafryd, I wonder? I know she was spending the day with him.”  
  
And oh, she can practically hear the smirk on Theon’s face as the seconds tick by, and she listens to the silence as the two boys _think_.  
  
The water is quiet for a moment, and Wynafryd thinks she might just be able to scurry off and out of this unscathed when that blasted pup of Robb’s comes leaping into her lap, up and over the log she is using as her shelter, and begins to bark little _yips_ at her. Ghost, of course, seems to have joined in on the fun, and stares at her with his beady red eyes, as if trying to solve a puzzle. She feels trapped, somewhat-these young direwolves cornering on one side, her betrothed and his friend on the other, and gods be good, she would well and truly feed and comfort the ill and poor if she could get out of this.  
  
“Wynafryd?”  
  
And there he is, standing before her, half-naked and dripping wet, and all she can do is _squeak_ and cover her gaping mouth, wide eyes determined to stay on his face and face only. Come on, Wynafryd.  
  
She shakes her head as if somehow able to say ‘no’, that she is not who he says she is, that she was not intentionally looking, and somehow, though she’ll regret it, she manages to feel her legs again and bolts back to her rooms, mortified.  
  
Jon would come talk to her later, and Theon would grin, and Lord Kit would raise his brow at her severely edited, yet wholly innocent, explanation, and once calmed down again, Wynafryd would have the most delightful night alone in her rooms in Winterfell yet.  


* * *

  
They are in the library, sitting before the fire, and she reads to him.  
  
It’s one of her favourite activities with him, she must confess-the tales they have found in amongst the shelves are entertaining and delicate, and Wynafryd enjoys reading the stories to Jon, acting more annoyed than she is whenever he interrupts her with how he thinks it ought to go, or, in the cases where he has read the book before, how he thinks it actually went, and that she must be wrong, the book must be wrong, despite the ink before her, for his memory of that particular tale is much different.  
  
Ghost sits with them, quiet, emitting a warmth that she leans into at times, enjoying the direwolf’s fur curling around her in lieu of his master.  
  
It is on such a day when the snows are quite violent outside, storming the castle in white, while inside Jon and Wynafryd are quite warm, content, watching it pass in the quiet warmth.  
  
It is on such a day that Wynafryd finds herself dozing off to sleep amongst Ghost’s furs, and wakes to arms circled around her, a body that is quite human holding her from behind, a chest breathing deep with sleep behind hers.  
  
She is quite ready to fall back into the fuzzy world of sleep, when she hears someone enter the library, calling out “Jon?” and oh gods, it is her good father to be. She is struggling out of Jon’s sleeping, tight hold, when Kit rounds the corner and spots her.  
  
“I-my lord, I-this is not what I-I mean-”  
  
And it is the tilt of his head, the twist of his lips that makes Wynafryd drop her head and groan into her hands, face burning with embarrassment as Jon finally rouses beside her, springing back as he spots his step-father, apologies and explanations tumbling from his lips.  


* * *

  
It is the night before they are to be wed, the moon full and high in the sky, and Wynafryd looks with astonishment at Jon, sweet Jon, who has done no more than kiss her, hold her, touch her-all above her dresses, of course, ever the gentleman, always so respectful, despite her keening pleas, despite the touches of her own.  
  
Jon, who is now in her rooms, looking at her as if she is to be his next meal.  
  
And oh, though she would normally be rejoicing in this turn of events, to have _him_ be the pursuer, it now seems fairly ludicrous, a cop out, almost, the night before they are to be wed, to lay together as man and wife for the first time. Before, Wynafryd’s anticipation had kept her up at night, smothering her cries with her pillows as her fingers worked her into a frenzy, imagining Jon’s in their place.  
  
Back in White Harbour she had had a...beau, of sorts-a boy whom she had used much like Theon used the girls in the brothel, without, of course, going past the point of no return. It was fun, not much else, a way to pass the time in what one could only call a delightful way.  
  
But tonight, he is here, looking at her like he is, and though Wynafryd’s baser instincts wants naught else but to step into him, to let him step into her, there is that one niggling thought hanging onto the nerves of a young maid. A thought so silly, she thinks, having been touched so explicitly before, having had those blushing thoughts of Lord’s Kisses the first time Jon had begun to talk to her, his lips looking so full, pliable, soft with a hint of broken, dried, skin from the cold that had felt so exquisite the first time they had kissed.  
  
They are silly thoughts, and yet one she cannot quite shake, despite the shiver than lightly runs down her spine as he begins to make his way across the room to her. Slowly, oh so slowly, and suddenly all Wynafryd wants to do is giggle, her lips twitching into a smile that she bites down on as hard as she can.  
  
“My lord? Jon? Is there something you needed?” She asks, tone polite if not a little clipped. Dressed only in her night shift, she means to command, to not be undermined by her body’s reaction to the cool air gently blowing into the room, to let Jon bloody Stark know that it was _she_ who would command him, and not the other way around.  
  
She looks up to him, standing before her, the faint whiff of ale on his breath, and though she wants to believe this little foray into her rooms fueled by false bravery, she also knows well enough that Jon is not so easily overcome by his cups as that. So if he has not been lead here by ale mixed with what she hopes to be lust, then what? It is a little thrilling, almost, to know that he is not easily figured out, contrary to her initial thoughts upon first meeting him on her arrival to Winterfell.  
  
“My lady, I-” he takes a breath, and bites his lip a little, much the way Wynafryd quite likes to do when he lets her. “I have come to wish a goodnight and goodmorrow, Wynafryd. I fear I won’t see much of you, and I hoped to see you alone before the festivities began.” His hand gently cups her cheek, and she leans into it, the fanned fingers tugging at stray hairs come undone from her braids, tracing over her beat beat beating pulse she fights to keep steady.  
  
“Oh.” Is all she can reply, voice small and breathy, lips in a gentle ‘o’, and his eyes, his dark, storming eyes seem to be telling her something else entirely, and Wynafryd feels all silly thoughts fleeing her mind as she grabs her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down to her, tip toeing up into his lips.  
  
They are warm and soft and hard as she remembers, and his moan at her nibbling on his lower lip, tugging it between her teeth with a little more roughness, a little more aggression, urges her on, deepening the kiss, her hands trailing along his jaw, into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.  
  
He pulls away, after a time, and looks at her with a pained expression.  
  
“Wynafryd, we cannot.”  
  
And Wynafryd clucks her tongue in annoyance, tilts her head in confusion. She’d very much like him to touch her, and after going through the trouble of getting to her rooms, he wants to turn back? She’d very much like to tear him apart, leave a ghost of man behind after she’s had her way with him.  
  
“Touch me, Jon.” She murmurs, voice low and guiding his hands to her hips, widening her stance a touch. “Touch me like I touch myself when you are not around.” She rasps into his ear, leaning her breasts into his chest, angling his hands towards her cunt, gently rocking into the heel of his hand through the light fabric.  
  
His breathe is heavy and hot against her ear, shuddering in and out a faint _Fred_ , and her eyes flutter shut, arching further into him, aching for his touch, fist clenching into his dark curls ever tighter. She rocks against him harder as he begins to move his hands unpracticed, delicate, against her, the only barrier between his fingers and her bare skin the thin shift she wears to bed.  
  
“Breathe, my love.” She whispers, and together they begin to gather up her skirt, hissing as he meets her wet, warm folds, curls damp, and she feels utterly helpless when he grazes lightly against the small bundle of nerves, the _spot_ she had been pleased to discover when she was a girl of sixteen, the _spot_ she is thrilled to have Jon discover on his own.  
  
“There, Jon. There.” She finds herself saying, finds herself pushing gently at his shoulders, part in support, and the rest seeming to be in this urge to have him discover, to explore her more thoroughly. He lays light kisses along her collar bone, down her chest, sucking a touch too hard through the shift at her breasts, though she will teach him otherwise later.  
  
He is kneeling before her now, arms supporting the skirt as his hands hold tight around her hips, and he looks up at her, a smile she’s never seen him smile before, his eyes darker than usual, eager with unknowing, and Wynafryd feels soft as butter at his look before he ducks from sight beneath her skirt, his breath heavy and heady against her cunt before he- _oh_. Oh.  
  
“Jon...” is all she can truly manage, for she’s certain he has set her on fire, fanning the flames with his tongue, stoking the heat, pulling her by the backs of her thighs and arse, closer, closer to him as she feels the rut of his stubbled jaw against her thigh, the slight crook in his nose as he nestles, nuzzles closer in to her cunt.  
  
His tongue slips through her folds, up _into_ her, and Wynafryd leans onto his head a little, feeling as if she were to turn inside out almost completely, Jon Stark her ultimate undoing, supping, licking her as if she were his last ever meal on this gods given earth, but it is the faint _Fred_ , whispered against her _spot_ that is what tears her apart, crying out to the moon, her knees quaking almost violently, pushing more of her weight against his broad shoulders, just managing to stay upright as his tongue waves her through yet another, unrelenting.  
  
It is an out of body experience, and though she has peaked before, she has never felt more needy, more out of her self, her body, than now, watching her betrothed suck greedily at her cunt, watching her self cry out empty sounds, hardly daring to breathe, an ache deep in her bones.  
  
Jon stops, eventually, pulls himself out from under her skirt, looks up at her as if he has had as much pleasure as she has, his mouth and chin slick with her, and it is hard to quash the burning inside as he licks his lips clean, his soft, hard, beautiful lips.  
  
He rises to stand before her, holding her steady in his arms, and kisses her again, his tongue quite joyfully fucking her mouth as it had her cunt, and Wynafryd whimpers against him, tastes her familiar self, and without thinking, begins to pull him towards her bed.  
  
He stops before her as she sits, crawling backwards up the blankets as he leans over her, reaching forward to cup the back of her head, and she is quite disappointed when he does not continue to follow.  
  
“Jon..?” But he just smiles at her, and though she knows herself to be quite in love with him, and quite certainly in lust with him in this moment, she wants to cry as he gently shakes his head.  
  
“My lady, I...I will go no further.”  
  
She wants to kill him.  
  
“But Jon, I. We are to be married, my love. One day cannot possibly make a diff-” and she is cut off with his lips, those magical lips against hers, and as he pulls back she feels quite the insolent child, the girl freshly flowered and unaware of a man’s touch.  
  
“We should save something for when I take you as my wife, Wynafryd.” He says quietly, voice filled with promise she had hoped, had imagined he would have after all these months at Winterfell, despite knowing with certainty he had had only her to touch in all his years.  
  
She shivers as he whispers, close to her ear, tugging gently on her lobe with his teeth: “You are _mine_ , Fred. I should like nothing more than to devour you and your tasty, warm cunt.”  
  
And it is not his words, but rather his new name for her, that leaves her wet and frustrated after he saunters from the room, looking as if he held all the world’s secrets in his mouth, leaving her, legs splayed, arms weak, on her bed.  
  
He thinks he can just leave her like this? Wanting and needing, helpless?  
  
“You know nothing, Jon Stark.” She whispers into the dark, already planning, plotting what she is to do with her new husband once she has him alone again. She is to be Wynafryd Stark soon, and though he will rule the North, she will rule him.  
  
And he will know that soon enough.


End file.
